


The English Detective and the Belgian Captain

by austenfan1990



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Post-World War I, Pre-Slash, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austenfan1990/pseuds/austenfan1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hercule Poirot, lately Captain in the Belgian Army, arrives in England to take up the role of assistant to an English detective of note, Mr Arthur Hastings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was January 1919. The Great War had ended only two months before and as soldiers left their posts at the front so too did a young Belgian captain who was now taking a boat across the Channel to England. Regardless of all the terrible things he had witnessed and experienced during the war, boats still disagreed with Hercule Poirot. He closed his eyes as the boat rolled violently as it ploughed through the choppy waters and he briefly wondered whether going to England had been a mistake. 

However, the plans had already been made and he couldn’t go back on his word now. No, that was not his way. After all, James Japp had been very kind and only the _bon Dieu_ would ever know how much effort he had put into making this meeting possible. Only a month before, Poirot had written to the Scotland Yard inspector only to receive a reply a week or so later wondering whether he would be interested in coming over to what Japp had called it, ‘the other side of the channel’. There was a friend of his, a private detective, who was in need of some help and who was willing to pay for it. Poirot did not care for the money, he was only interested in the work which his years in the Belgian Police had allowed him to utilise his little grey cells. Only the advent of the war prevented him from advancing into a promising career as a detective after years of hard work and though he had occasionally mourned how things had turned out, he now decided that it was now time to start afresh and begin again. Japp’s offer was gratefully accepted. 

Reaching into his pocket, he took out a name card which he had received by post only a day before his departure. Japp had sent a large envelope full of documents that he could peruse during his journey. 

‘Mr Arthur Hastings, Private Detective,’ read Hercule Poirot.

*

Arthur Hastings was running late for an appointment. This was not the first time this had happened. He suspected that his unusual tardiness of late was an unfortunate result of the large increase in his clients and this was also the reason why he had leapt upon Japp’s suggestion that a former colleague of his come over to England in order to help him. Admittedly, he had raised an eyebrow when he was told that the man was Belgian but he thought nothing of it. Unlike others in his position, he did not take nationalities into account when choosing his friends or colleagues. What difference did it make if a fellow was English, French or from even the Balkans as long as he was trustworthy and good at his job? His two years in the trenches had taught him the value of cooperation.

And it was this Belgian gentleman whom he had promised to meet at King’s Cross and who he had kept waiting, along with Japp, for at least a quarter of an hour.

‘Excellent first impression, Hastings,’ he murmured as he left his flat.

He threw himself into his Lagonda, thankful that he had chosen to purchase a car despite the large investment it entailed. If he had waited for a cab, he doubted he would even make it to the station within the next half hour. 

He arrived ten minutes later, well aware that he was nearly half an hour late. The station was full of people and sighing, he began to weave his way through the crowds.

‘Hastings!’

Hastings turned and the familiar and burly figure of James Japp came forward to greet him. 

‘Sorry for being so late, Japp. My client took more of my time than I had expected.’

‘Not a problem, Hastings,’ said Japp genially. ‘Been talking with Captain Poirot over a cuppa, recalling old cases and the like. Which reminds me, I have to introduce you.’

Hastings followed Japp to the station café which was relatively empty. Japp stepped inside and walked towards the table nearest the door where a man was seated.

‘Hastings, this is Captain Hercule Poirot. Poirot, this is Mr Arthur Hastings.’

Hercule Poirot stood as Japp made his introductions. He was a small man but stocky and well-built and behind that magnificently kept moustache; his dark features gleamed with intelligence. 

‘Monsieur Hastings,’ said Poirot in a calm baritone as he proffered his hand. 

Though he had planned to apologise to the man as soon as he saw him, Hastings lost his ability to speak the moment he placed his hand in the other man’s and he had to remind himself not to stare at him lest he scared the fellow off. Poirot attracted him, that much was certain and he forced himself not to give in to his less than respectable thoughts. 

‘P-pleasure to finally meet you, Captain Poirot,’ he managed once he regained control of his voice. ‘I – I must apologise for my delay. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.’ He cursed himself inwardly; of course, he had kept them waiting too long and his stammering was not improving matters for him. 

Poirot glanced at Japp who appeared slightly bemused at his colleague’s behaviour and smiled to himself. The good Japp did not have the slightest idea what was going on but Poirot’s little grey cells had seen everything he needed to see on Hastings’ countenance and he was very much flattered. In the end, he took pity on them both.

‘ _Pas du tout, monsieur_. Inspector Japp and I were happily reminiscing over our past cases. I also would like to thank you both for your kindness in allowing me to come to England.’

Japp mumbled something in embarrassment which sounded like ‘It was the least I could do’ while Hastings did not do any better and said something along those same lines.

After they had transported Poirot’s luggage safely into Hastings’ Lagonda, Japp returned to the Yard, saying that he had some unfinished business to attend to. As Poirot took his place beside him in the car, Hastings wondered whether hiring Hercule Poirot had been a good idea.


	2. Chapter 2

It took some time to get used to sharing his flat with another person but Hastings soon found that he enjoyed his new friend’s company. Hercule Poirot was slightly eccentric – there was no doubt about that. Order and method were his gods and to Poirot, an askew tie pin was just as serious a matter as a wretched murder. He wasn’t certain whether he should be amused or exasperated by his friend’s eccentricities but it appeared that he enjoyed them all the same. Hastings could not remember when his flat was as tidy and spotless as it was now and it wasn’t only his flat which had been worked into order. Whereas his cases during the past couple of months had been almost unmanageable, Poirot’s help had been invaluable. He had been astounded at the former policeman’s logical reasoning – time and time again when the case at hand seemed unsolvable, an observation on Poirot’s part had nearly always proved correct and the one responsible had been caught. Had he been a less honourable man, Arthur Hastings might have been tempted to be bitter about his colleague’s mental prowess. He was, after all, being paid to be his assistant. But rather than being envious, Hastings was more grateful than anything else that Hercule Poirot was on his side. 

_What calamities would come about if that great mind of his was on the side of the criminals,_ he thought and he shuddered to himself. He looked up from his newspaper and saw Poirot looking at him and for a moment, he thought that he had read his mind. With a small and very self-conscious smile, Hastings returned his attention to the article he had been reading but in vain. The words made no sense to him now and all he could think of was the Belgian’s enthralling dark eyes. Their investigations took his mind off how much he was attracted to the man but quiet moments like these in between cases made him dangerously close to acting on his emotions. He then remembered Lionel, the young lieutenant he had fallen for during his time in the trenches before the Somme had taken the man’s life away like so many others. The thought of him was enough to remind Hastings that relationships came with a price and he was not quite ready to go through all that again.

*

Apart from expressing horror at what the English called cuisine and the terrible weather, Poirot found England a pleasant country. The people in general were friendly when one managed to break down their barriers though he had encountered his fair share of ignorant and unpleasant characters who were hostile to ‘foreigners’ such as himself. This had made his work difficult but not unmanageable.

He was glad that Hastings was not one of these xenophobes; he suspected that the detective’s good nature was the main reason why he did not mind these people too much. Whenever one of their suspects had begun to insult him, Hastings had glared at them and sharply told them to mind their manners. In truth, he could take care of himself quite readily but he appreciated his friend’s actions, especially since Hastings’ career as a detective was not yet firmly established. Short-term success did not necessarily mean a long-term one, as Poirot learned himself years ago, and society could turn on its head without a moment’s notice at even the slightest _faux pas_ , especially in the high society waters they were now treading. 

As for the cases they had encountered so far, they were complex but not unsolvable. He noted with some concern that his friend often appeared to be out of his depth and wondered why he had chosen to embark on such a career. However, Poirot could never bring himself to say this to Hastings and kept his thoughts – amongst other things – to himself. He was after all his assistant and he had no place to tell him what to do. 

He ruminated for a while until the doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of their newest client. 

‘Ready, Poirot?’ asked Hastings, his face lighting up like a schoolboy about to receive Christmas presents.

Poirot smiled and nodded and Hastings went to open the door.

*

‘So how are things going, Hastings?’ asked Japp. They were both nursing a pint of beer at a nearby pub after the conclusion of their latest case. Poirot had stepped outside for a while; he was still unused to the atmosphere of the English pub.

‘Excellently,’ replied Hastings. 

‘And how’s Poirot faring?’

‘Haven’t you asked him?’

‘I have. I was just wondering how you two were getting along.’

‘Oh, we’re getting along very well. He’s – eccentric at times though,’ said Hastings slowly. He did not want to sound critical of Poirot and Japp gave a gruff laugh. 

‘Yes, he does that. Going on about order and method and those ‘little grey cells’, eh? Bless him. I was not quite sure of him myself when we first worked together all those years ago but when he cracked that case like a nut, I knew he was the goods.’

‘Does he have any family? In Belgium?’

‘Got a mother and sister, I think.’ 

This was not exactly what Hastings had meant but he was somewhat pleased to know that Hercule Poirot was unmarried and left the matter at that. 

They began to talk of other things before the sound of broken glass alerted them of some disturbance outside the pub. In all probability, Hastings wouldn’t have paid much attention had it not been for the fact that he heard Poirot’s voice amongst the tumult.

‘What the devil?’ he murmured, glancing at Japp. Without another word, both men rose to their feet and headed outside. 

‘You ought to watch where you’re going, you fool!’

‘My sincere apologies, _monsieur_ ,’ replied Poirot calmly to the clearly inebriated young man who was now glaring at him. 

‘Now what’s going on here?’ asked Japp in his most official voice. Poirot opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the other man. 

‘What’s going on?’ the man cried in near hysteria. ‘This man deliberately ran into me, that’s what’s going on. Are you a police officer? You look like one. If you are, I’d like to report this man for assault.’

Japp cleared his throat. 

‘Pardon me, sir, but I don’t think that will be possible.’

‘And why not? Damn it, man. This man could have done me a great harm. My father wouldn’t be pleased if he found out all about this.’

‘I think your father, whoever he may be, would be far more displeased if he found you drunk,’ said Hastings coldly. ‘Now leave my friend alone and go home if you know what’s good for you.’ 

The man threw him an extremely ugly look. 

‘How dare you, sir? Do you even know who I am?’

‘I neither know nor care,’ said Hastings, matching him in tone. The younger man appeared to quail a little at his gaze and stepped back. 

Believing that this was the end of it, Hastings made to return inside.

‘Bloody foreigner.’

Without a second thought, Hastings spun round and struck the man hard in the face. The man reeled backwards, lost his balance and crumpled into a heap on the ground. Japp and Poirot let out a simultaneous cry of surprise and for a moment, Hastings regretted punching him. Even now, the knuckles on his hand were beginning to swell up. 

‘You two better leave,’ muttered Japp. 

‘Sorry, Japp, I didn’t mean to –’

‘Never mind that.’ The man on the ground gave a loud groan. ‘You better go before he wakes up. I’ll sort things out here.’ 

Both Poirot and Hastings returned to the flat without further delay. Hastings drove them back while Poirot was silent and with each passing moment, Hastings felt increasingly foolish. Once they had arrived, Poirot disappeared into his room and Hastings sank heavily onto the couch, sighing at his stupidity. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the couch. He felt someone take his hand and his eyes flew open to see Poirot gently cleaning his hand with a washcloth, a basin of water and a small bottle of alcohol placed on the table beside him. 

Hastings swallowed nervously, uncertain of what to do. He settled on remaining silent as Poirot tended to him and trying to focus on the coolness of the water and the slight sting of the alcohol rather than the warm, manly hand which enveloped his own. 

‘Thank you, Poirot,’ he managed as his hand was bandaged up. Poirot looked up at him, his expression grave. 

‘You should not have done that, Hastings.’

Hastings sighed. ‘I know. I was being awfully foolish, wasn’t I?’

An odd smile tugged at Poirot’s lips. ‘Foolish, perhaps…but honourable? _Certainement_. You have a noble heart, Hastings.’ He offered his hand. ‘Thank you, _mon ami_.’

‘Not at all, Poirot,’ replied Hastings, smiling. _And I’ll gladly do that again_ , he added privately.


	3. Chapter 3

Winter soon turned into spring and with it, the cases came thick and fast with almost maddening intensity. An ingenious robbery at an illustrious gala dinner and the murder of a well-known architect were only two of the great many cases which came their way. Exhausted both mentally and physically, Hastings invited Poirot to Cornwall where he always thought the air did people a world of good. Poirot gratefully accepted his friend’s offer and within three days and arriving at their rooms at the hotel, they looked forward to a well-deserved holiday. Unfortunately for them, their newfound celebrity brought them to the attention of a Mrs Chiltern whose young son had disappeared and their holiday was brought to a complete and utter standstill.

After a day or so of interviewing all the witnesses and examining the evidence at hand, they had at last identified the kidnapper as the boy’s own father. As such, they were currently on the heels of Mr James Chiltern, who after realising that he had lost his entire fortune in stocks and facing a divorce from his wife, had taken their son from Mrs Chiltern’s suite at the hotel and fled. Stuffed into a second-class compartment on a train to London, Poirot and Hastings were forced to console a hysterical Mrs Chiltern as they inwardly prayed that this whole business would be over soon. Mr Chiltern was not a violent man but the turmoil of the past months had had their effect on him and he was now understood to be almost out of his mind. A madman with a young child was not a situation to be entertained.

About an hour into their journey, Mrs Chiltern managed to fall asleep – helped no doubt by some sedative administered by a passing doctor who took pity on the two men’s plight – and Poirot and Hastings took the first opportunity to step out of the compartment.

‘I’m sorry how everything has turned out, Poirot,’ said Hastings after a while. ‘Your first holiday in England and all.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry about, _mon ami_ ,’ replied Poirot as he took a long inhale of his cigarette. ‘There can be another time; the safety and well-being of the young Master Chiltern is more important.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

Silence settled between them and Hastings appeared unusually troubled about something and this was unusual. Always keen and eager when embarking on a case, he had been subdued ever since they had left Cornwall. Poirot did not wish to intrude on his friend’s thoughts but he did feel concerned and wanted very much to convey this. The one disadvantage of this country was that the English were unbelievably reserved; almost ridiculously so and Poirot had had some trouble initially in containing his emotions. But for Hastings’ sake – who he soon learned was not the most demonstrative of men – he had reined them in. There were times and places though and now was not the time, he thought, for the ‘reining in’.

After a moment’s hesitation, Poirot gently laid a hand on Hastings’ arm. The latter looked sharply at him, evidently taken by surprise, but his expression softened as he looked into Poirot’s face.

‘Are you troubled, Hastings?’ 

Hastings hesitated. 

‘A little, I suppose. You see, all this taking a child business – it’s horrendous. The poor lad’s innocent, why did that fellow Chiltern have to take him?’

‘ _Oui_ , it was not good that. But the mind of Monsieur Chiltern is not entirely sound at the moment, Hastings.’ Poirot reflected to himself as various memories of the war flashed across his mind and added quietly: ‘Men in such a state of mind do foolish things; I have seen my share of them.’

Poirot took another deep inhale of his cigarette.

‘But I agree with you, _mon ami_. The sooner this case is over the better.’

‘Absolutely,’ replied Hastings, nodding.

*

The case indeed ended soon after their arrival in London but it ended in the most unforeseen and shocking way imaginable. They arrived in London only to realise that Chiltern had changed his plans, switched trains and had gone to Dover instead to catch a boat to Calais. Japp however had learned of this sometime before Poirot and Hastings’ arrival and had sent several of his men to placate him and retrieve the child.

‘Sent them out as soon as I heard,’ said Japp, leading them into his office at Scotland Yard. ‘Sergeant Johnson is in charge and he hasn’t failed me yet, Hastings. We’ll have your boy safe and sound, Mrs Chiltern.’

Then the wait began, the four of them sitting around Japp’s desk, waiting for the telephone to ring. After three cups of tea and two and a half hours of anxious waiting, they were startled when the phone rang at last. Japp immediately grabbed the receiver. 

‘Johnson, have you got – what?’ Japp sounded horrified. ‘How in the ruddy hell did he get a – ? Ambulance? Well, of course, call an ambulance! Do it and do it quickly!’

‘Ambulance?’ shrieked Mrs Chiltern, leaping from her seat. Poirot and Hastings also stood, unable to believe their ears. 

‘Your husband’s just shot himself, Mrs Chiltern. I don’t know how he got a gun, madam, but that’s not important now. The most important thing is that we are taking your boy to the hospital…he’s been shot as well.’

‘The boy as well?’ asked Hastings, his expression one of complete horror. Japp was unable to elaborate as Mrs Chiltern rushed out, screaming for someone to find her a train to Dover. 

‘Yes,’ said Japp heavily. ‘Johnson cornered Chiltern at the docks at Dover and asked him to hand himself over. Without warning, the man pulls out a revolver and shoots his son before turning the gun on himself and blowing his bloody head off.’

‘Oh God.’

Hastings felt sick to his stomach and he sank back into his chair. 

‘Johnson tells me that the boy’s been shot in back but if the ambulance comes quickly enough, there might still be a chance that he’ll pull through.’

‘And Sergeant Johnson, he will call you again once he receives word of the boy’s condition?’ asked Poirot gravely, glancing at Hastings’ stricken figure. 

‘Yes, he will,’ said Japp, appearing just as upset as the rest of them. He looked out into the corridor. ‘You two better go; there’s nothing for you to do now. I’ll speak to Mrs Chiltern.’

Japp went out and after a few minutes, Poirot and Hastings also left and returned to the flat. 

Once they had entered their sitting room, Poirot wordlessly prepared whisky for the both of them. Hastings tossed back his glass the moment it had been placed in his hand and he said shakily:

‘It’s all my damn fault.’

‘Your fault, Hastings? But you could have had no idea that Mr Chiltern had a gun in his possession.’

‘That yes, but I should have expected that he had gone to Dover. I was a fool thinking he would have come here.’

Poirot made an impatient noise. ‘Hastings, forgive me, but you are not doing credit to yourself by speaking so. Neither of us could have known exactly where Monsieur Chiltern would have gone or whether he changed his mind at the last moment.’ 

‘But don’t you understand? I _should_ have known! And now two more lives have been lost because of me.’ Hastings appeared much distracted and Poirot could tell that this latest development had affected him deeply. He too was upset but Hastings was even more dangerously so. ‘I thought I could prevent more deaths,’ murmured Hastings cryptically. ‘This is not what was supposed to happen.’

‘ _Mon ami_ , this foolish talk must cease – ’ began Poirot gently.

Something in Hastings seemed to snap at Poirot’s words and he suddenly rose to his feet from the couch. 

‘Foolish, am I?’ he exclaimed. ‘Have you seen what I’ve seen, Poirot? Watching your – your friends die right before you as they get torn to pieces by machinegun fire or a mortar shell or…or – ’ 

He faltered, his ramblings dissipating into the air as he caught sight of the expression on Poirot’s face.

‘Yes, Hastings,’ said Poirot slowly in a cold hard voice and terrifyingly different from the one that he had grown used to. ‘I have seen all that and more. I have seen my country invaded and overrun, my people brought down to their knees while their homes burned all around them. Do not forget for one moment, _mon ami_ , that I too was a soldier.’

Hastings knew that he had offended him and overwhelming shame flooded through him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Poirot didn’t speak to him for the rest of his life and he felt that he deserved it for speaking so shockingly out of turn. His thoughts were completely in a muddle and Hastings’ overriding urge at the moment was to get out and try to forget all of this dreadful mess had ever happened. 

Murmuring an apology and his empty glass clattering to the floor, Hastings retrieved his hat and left the flat. Poirot meanwhile suppressed the urge to go after him, unable to believe what had just passed between them. He was still much offended and hurt but the regard he had for Hastings stopped him from feeling anything more hostile than that. 

An hour passed and the phone rang. It was Japp. 

‘Poirot, is Hastings there?’

‘No, he – he left for a walk, I think.’

‘On a rainy night like this? Never mind. I’ve just got word from Johnson that Mrs Chiltern’s son is going to make it and that Mrs Chiltern is on her way to Dover to join him.’

‘That is excellent news, my dear Japp!’ exclaimed Poirot.

‘Yes, it is. At least something good has come out of all this,’ sighed Japp. ‘Tell Hastings all this when he comes back, would you?’

Japp rang off and Poirot put down the receiver, now wondering where Hastings had gone.

*

Hastings only realised later that he had chosen a bad time to head outside. It was pouring with rain and he hadn’t brought an umbrella with him but nothing could persuade him to return upstairs. Especially not when he had offended Poirot like that being the imbecile that he was. After causing two deaths and now losing the respect of a man he was seriously in danger of falling in love with – if he had not done so already – in the course of one day, he was in a state of almost total despair.

Unwilling to return home, he walked aimlessly in the rain, his clothes soaked through until he realised that he was traversing a route that he hadn’t taken in an entire year. Had it really been that long since the last time? Well, that was understandable seeing that men like him had to be careful in even keeping the most casual of liaisons secret. He wondered very much whether he would still be able to find the flat. The more honourable part of his brain told him that it was utterly inappropriate to satisfy his urges after such awful events but then again, he wanted nothing more in the world than to forget what had happened even only for a few hours.

His mind set, he found himself in a more shabby part of the city and knocking on that well-known door. A few minutes passed without anyone coming to the door and he was about to give up when the door opened and a young man with dark features stood before him. 

‘Arthur,’ said the man in obvious surprise.

‘Hello, William,’ managed Hastings a little awkwardly. ‘How good to see you. Say, do you mind if I come up?’

William stared at him for a good full minute and Hastings wondered why on earth the man had grown a moustache during the past year. It was nothing like Poirot’s but the very existence of it only made him feel more terrible and for a moment, he regretted ever coming here. 

‘I haven’t seen you for a whole year,’ said William a little reproachfully.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Well, I can’t complain since you’re here anyway now.’ William smiled a little and Hastings was once more agonisingly reminded of Poirot. ‘But I’ve always had a soft spot for you, Arthur, so you’re damn lucky I’m in a good mood. Good God, you’re soaked through. You better come inside.’

Hastings did as he was told and followed William up the stairs to his rooms.


	4. Chapter 4

Poirot stayed up until midnight awaiting Hastings’ return. His wait turned out to be in vain and it was only the next morning when Poirot had been on his way to the kitchen to make breakfast that he noticed that Hastings’ bedroom door was slightly ajar. Glancing inside, he saw that his friend had made no attempt to change into his pyjamas, merely collapsing on his bed the moment he got inside and he winced at the haphazard manner in which his wet jacket and tie had been discarded on the floor.

Uncertain of his reception but deciding that he didn’t care in the least, he pushed open the door. Putting the jacket and tie in their rightful places, he then set about waking his friend – if only to get him out of his damp clothes – when he knew something was out of place. Without knowing why, his eyes flew upwards to Hastings’ slightly swollen lips, his hair which was more ruffled than usual and then down to his slightly open shirt which had seemingly lost a button overnight. 

All these told him at once what had happened after his departure from the flat last night and a mingled sense of regret, disappointment and yes, even a little jealousy rose up within him. For once in his life, Poirot hated the fact that his little grey cells and his powers of observation were so acute. How he dearly wished that he could erase what he had just learned. What pained him even more was that it was clearly not _une femme_ who Hastings had spent the night with but _un homme_. That much was clear from the slight scent of cologne on his clothes and which Hastings never wore.

Standing as if frozen in place in the middle of the room, numerous thoughts raced through his head. But he could not bring himself to feel differently towards his friend in spite of such a discovery. Composing himself, he laid a hand on Hastings’ shoulder and shook it gently.

‘Hastings.’

It took a few moments for Hastings to rouse himself from sleep, his blue eyes peering blearily into the concerned face of his friend.

‘Poirot?’

‘Your clothes, Hastings. They are still damp from the rain.’

Hastings looked down, flushing slightly in embarrassment at Poirot finding him in such a state. He had returned to the flat at four in the morning in order to avoid detection and a possibly awkward confrontation but he had clearly forgotten to shut his door before falling asleep.

He sat up quickly.

‘Yes. Yes, so they are.’

He watched as Poirot opened his closet and retrieved his pyjamas. ‘You should change, it is not conducive to the health.’

A sense of humility came over him when they were pressed into his hands and he rubbed the fabric between his fingers absently. He had clearly hurt Poirot last night and yet he was still very much concerned for his well-being. He surely didn’t deserve to have such a friend.

‘Now I shall see to breakfast,’ said Poirot.

Hastings very much loathed to let him leave even for a moment; the closeness of their bodies as Poirot stood near him was something he had longed for and lacked last night in William’s arms but this very thought also shamed him and he allowed him to go without protest.

Just as he reached the door, Hastings called out softly:

‘I’m sorry, Poirot. Will you forgive me?’

Those brown eyes fixed upon his face with such intensity that for one terrible moment, he thought that Poirot had seen through his indiscretion and straight into his mind itself.

At last, Poirot’s expression settled and he said in an odd, pained voice: ‘I already have, _mon ami_.’

He saw puzzlement enter Hastings’ eyes at this but he quietly left the room before he could be questioned.

*

It was some time before an atmosphere of normalcy returned to the flat. There was an odd, moody air about Poirot which Hastings found very unsettling. His mood had not been improved when Hastings belatedly discovered he had taken on more cases than he could manage – this being the result of Hastings’ intention to distract them from their near-falling out. This did not help in regaining Poirot’s good-humour but fortunately other than being chastised for his organisational skills, or lack of them, they managed to bring the ones responsible to justice.

This sudden tension between them had also been observed by Japp but being the upright man that he was, he didn’t enquire into the matter.

An important step towards reconciliation came through an unexpected development. Hastings had entered the sitting room one morning when he saw Poirot looking at a piece of a paper in his hands. On closer inspection, he noted it was a letter.

‘Is something wrong, Poirot?’

Poirot looked up, his eyes full of emotion. ‘This,’ he said, indicating the paper in his hand, ‘tells me that one of my closest friends has passed on.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Hastings. ‘Did you know him long?’

‘Since I was a young boy. He was the reason why I became a police officer.’

‘Really?’

‘ _Mais oui_. He was a friend of my father’s – my father was not part of the police – so my sister and I were told to call him uncle. His work interested me even at such a young age and when I announced my intention of joining the force when I was eighteen, he aided me in every way he could. _Malheureusement_ , the war took many things away from him, including his wife and son and he was in poor health for the last few years.’ He sighed sadly. ‘In a sense, perhaps it is better this way.’

Hastings nodded.

‘Tragedy often does things to people, sometimes in the most unexpected ways.’ There was a pause. ‘My younger sister disappeared when I was seventeen.’

He saw the surprise in Poirot’s eyes but he continued regardless.

‘Sarah and I had always been close, far closer than we were to our older sister, Eileen. I was away at Eton when she disappeared and I didn’t learn about it until I came home for the summer.’ Hastings remembered the shock he had received when he had returned home and then the anger at not being told earlier.

‘My parents said that they hadn’t wanted to worry me but by that point, I was simply livid. Then I went out searching for her for myself. The police had already been all over the nearby village where she was last seen and the babblings of a seventeen-year-old didn’t make much of an impression on them.’

‘You were frustrated, _mon ami_ ,’ said Poirot in sympathy.

‘Very much so. In the end, it didn’t amount to anything and well, we never managed to find her.’

‘Did the police ever offer an explanation?’

‘Sarah was never the sort to run away so the main conclusion we all came to was that she had been kidnapped. Why and by what villain, no one knows but that’s what I’ve always been trying to find out ever since I finished at Eton. I always wanted a sort of Sherlock Holmes fellow to appear and solve the mystery but when it was clear that was never going to happen, I decided to take on the task on myself.’

‘So that is why you became you became a detective.’

‘Yes. Initially, it was only for Sarah’s sake but when people began to know what I was doing, they asked me to solve things for them.’ Heaven knows why they had done so, he thought privately, since his first cases had nearly been disastrous and had been only saved by the fact that he had realised something crucial at the last moment.

‘Did you learn anything about your sister?’

‘I learned some things but that didn’t come to anything as I was constantly engaged with other assignments. My fault really; I should have chosen my cases more carefully. Then the war came and after I returned, no one was interested in the disappearance of a young girl which happened fifteen years ago.’

The exasperation in Hastings’ voice was painfully obvious and Poirot nodded. He understood now why Hastings had been so upset during the Chiltern case.

‘I am sorry for your loss, Hastings,’ he said softly.

Hastings smiled gratefully at him. ‘It’s been a long time and perhaps I should let it go. But thank you all the same.’

‘Do not lose hope, my friend. Perhaps she will reappear once again. The wonder of life is that sometimes the least expected can happen.’

Hastings mused over this, hoping rather than believing this to be true.


End file.
